


Turn Off the Lights and Turn On Your Mind

by PhiladelphiaBurke



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Arthur needs a hug, Dancing, Description Porn, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, He could be thinking of Sophie, Kissing, Let your imagination go wild, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhiladelphiaBurke/pseuds/PhiladelphiaBurke
Summary: She's always there when he needs her, and as real as he needs her to be. But how real is he?
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Girl he is imagining, Arthur Fleck/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Turn Off the Lights and Turn On Your Mind

You’ve got to learn how not be  
Where you are  
The more you face reality  
The more you scar  
So close your eyes  
And you’ll become a movie star  
Why must you stay  
Where you are?  
And if you find that you land in jail  
A little fantasy will not fail…. – Kander and Ebb, Kiss of the Spider Woman

Brief note: This takes place in the midway point of the film, right before Arthur decides to go see Thomas Wayne. I realize Arthur has the body of an unhealthy person and I don’t advocate anyone actually doing anything of the kind of their own body. I also do not condone any of the character’s actions in the film, I do not condone romanticizing any type of mental condition. The quote explains what I tried to do. I own nothing; this is for any fan who imagines themselves with Arthur. 

This is dedicated to my BFF, Carmen (not her real name) , who is my favorite person to write for! This one’s for you, Joker fan extraordinaire, so thank you for always inspiring me! 

She’s never far from his side, because she is whatever he needs her to be. She is all women: dark, fair or neither; curvy or coltish; impetuous, gentle, or none of these. But she is always lovely, and her touch is always the same. When they embrace, he can feel every element of the act: the feeling of being held or the weight of her body against him, her cheek brushing his. Whoever she is.  
Her name changes as often as her face. He gets the names from TV, movies, newspapers and magazines: Elizabeth; Sophie; Luisa; Brittany. When he hears one he likes, he puts it in his journal. When they’re all strung together, the names look like song lyrics, or a poem. Although he knows he never was too good at poetry. When he has something written in his journal that he’s especially proud of, he’ll read it aloud and pay close attention to her reaction. She doesn’t always laugh, but that’s ok. She'll explain why, and this helps him narrow down the best thoughts, the best observations. Any response is better than no response at all- like the indifference at his sessions or from most of the guys at work.

The important thing is that she’s always there, no matter how alone he feels. His body could be wracked with pain in a laughing fit, but knowing she is there reminds him that the jabbing at his sides and the cramping in his jaw will pass. Her smile will be there to blot it out. He’ll be able to get to sleep tonight because her voice is the last thing he’ll hear.  
Right now he’s at home, sitting on the couch in nothing but his briefs. Today could have been worse, he thinks. He’s forgotten to look at the time and wonders whether it’s very late or very early; he would get up and look at the clock if his head weren’t swimming. He murmurs her name instead and adds, ‘I miss you.”  
“You don’t have to,” she says, and suddenly she is reclining next to him. “I’m right here.”  
“No, at work, I missed you at work…but I know they wouldn’t like you hanging around there.”  
“Why don’t you rest your head?” she whispers, and this seems like a reasonable enough idea. “Let me take a look at you.”  
He leans back on the couch, with his legs spread open before him. It's not just the dizziness from his pills, or the low blood sugar, that make him see her sitting on his lap. No, he sees her smiling down at him because he wants to. "Better?" she asks. Whatever else he wants in his heart, that ache for a tangible connection is still there. His trust, the one thing no one can take from him, will be safe with her.   
"Uh-huh," he says, and dizziness has subsided a little. Satisfied with this, he breathes deeply and his stomach goes from flat to concave. She runs her hands over his midriff, as if smoothing out a silk sheet. “You’re so delicate.” There’s awe in that voice and in the way she traces every fine-boned line of his body- the feeling was so strong he could almost see her tracings, spreading like the veins that ran under his skin. Her fingers play on the filigree of his ribcage and he basks in the little shudders that follow her touch. Wanting her is making him prickle between his legs. Right now he could just throw his arms around her and drown in her. Throw them both over the edge, never to be heard from again. At least they’d be together.  
“Your hands are so warm …please don’t stop,” he sighs. The longing in his soft voice is painful. Gary, his co-worker, once said he always sounded like a whipped dog. Gary had thought he was out of earshot, but no, he heard every word that was being said about him. He’s been studying harder and taking even more notes after that, reminding himself that nobody ever says Murray sounds like a whipped dog. "I want you," he says, trying not to sound 'whipped'. "Please." She brings her hand between his legs finding the slit in his underwear and drawing him out, and he groans aloud at how smooth and gentle her hand is. He wonders how that sounded...  
“Maybe not right now. You don't look so good,” she says, interrupting his shame at how he sounds. With her other hand, she strokes his high forehead. “Oh, I thought you’d be burning up but you’re cold.” But she’s not nagging or scolding, only concerned.  
“Just a little tired,” he protests weakly. “I’ll be okay.”  
He goes to the bathroom, splashes a bit of cold water. Pausing, he watches the water flow over the planes of his face in little rivulets, like tears. Lately he’s felt less sure about certain things. His job, his act- all the notes he’s been taking. It all feels slightly off, somehow… but there’s one question in the back of his mind that he doesn’t want to dust off and look at. Something about her is off, something about this time they spend together. It’s….not what it should be? But it’s pure, sustaining them both. As he prepares to walk back to her, he knows that he won’t let that purity go. He sees his makeup from work- a spare set, for emergencies- in the bathroom, and it gives him an idea.  
He whispers her name, whatever it feels like at that moment, and motions for her to come stand before him. Without even trying, his voice cuts through her, like he’s marking her with his mouth.   
“What is it?”  
He holds up the red, displaying it to her in his hand. “Would you let me try it on you? Just a little bit, on your mouth?”  
“You want us to match?” she says with a little bit of a giggle.  
He likes that, very cute. “Just an idea. I want to see how you look.” He goes to put it on, but she stops him.  
“You smile when you do it. Maybe it would look better if I smiled.”  
Something behind his eyes flickers to life. “Yeah. Smile pretty for me." She obliges and he smears the red on her lips. He gently brushes the corner of her mouth with his finger. She smiles warmly and a shaky grin crosses his own face. He never could hold them long, unless he was faking it or forced to. Then she hears him: "Ahh... so pretty."  
“Kiss me, Arthur,” she says.  
“My name is Carnival.” He puts the makeup down and fiercely kisses her scarlet mouth, cupping the back of her head as if he’s going to breathe her in. He can feel her becoming more real as he breathes life into her with the kiss, gaining agency from his love for her. His perfect love, because nothing can ever contradict it or weaken it.  
His name might be Carnival. Yet another thing that feels uncertain. "You like it?" she asks. He nods, studying the red stain on her mouth and wondering if he should lick it off.   
She decides to mark him in return. The young woman gets down on her knees and leaves kisses on his bare midriff, the red streaks dropping down low onto the lines of his hips. He moans, leaning back and letting out a shuddering gasp after each kiss. Each breath, they both know, brings them closer. He reaches forward and cups her face as she looks up at him. "Don't go," he says. He raises her up by her arms and presses her close. Now his angular face is nestled down in the soft spot between her neck and shoulder, and she feels tears fall from his eyes.  
"It's ok if you cry,” she says. “But you don't have to, I'm not leaving."  
His head jerks up and he studies her whole face this time, not just the red. He blinks as if to bring her into focus. He can’t see how his rumpled hair falls over his brow like dark vines, or how his mouth looks bloodied. All he can see is her face, and it’s not startled. No, she’s here for him. “Dance with me,” he says suddenly.  
“Are you asking me or telling me?”  
“I want you to,” he says, sounding harsh, like he’s trying to get her to confess to something.  
“Okay.”  
He reaches out and puts her arms around his shoulders, intending to hold her by her waist. Instead, she smiles wickedly and moves her arms down to pull him tight against her. She is admiring how easy it is to grasp him- his waist is so beautifully slender, as if corseted. “Love holding you close,” she whispers. He holds her and they sway, then he holds her a bit further away as if they were about to waltz. But that’s not how he dances with her. Instead elongates and slows every motion, putting his hands on her hips to indicate when she should move them forward, towards his own. Soon he breaks away and starts letting the music flow through his entire body, and she stops to watch.  
He always has music with him, the same way he always has her. They both exist inside him, not like a disease but like the ability to speak another language. His every gesture is a seduction, right down to the subtle motions and turns of the wrist. The movements aren’t just for her- he seems to move this way to express what he cannot say aloud or even write down. She’s beguiled. He knows how he looks and moves, she realizes, how graceful. She can tell from seeing the lovely curl of his lips, the way he bends to make his muscles even more taut and defined. No blushing innocent, he understands the allure of his every motion. He sweeps over to her, rolling his shoulders confidently, and spreads his arms wide.  
“You look like you’re casting a spell,” she whispers.  
He stops, only his feet dancing, a little soft-shoe. “You mean, like a magician?”  
She smiles shyly. “Yes, but without a wand. Or a rabbit out of your hat.”  
“You…” He breaks away, looking out the window, then over down to where, on the other side of the wall and down the short hallway, his mother is asleep. Still swaying, he looks back at her. “A wand. You have the best ideas- that’s what I was missing.”  
“You seemed like you had something on your mind,” she says. “What is it, love?”  
“I have to go out tomorrow,” he replies. He takes her hands and presses them to his lips. Tenderly, he kisses them, on the backs and then on the palms. “I’ll tell you about it when I get back, okay?”  
“Arthur,” she whispers, “just promise me you’ll get home safe.”  
“Can you promise me…” he lowers his voice: “That I really do exist?”  
“I’ll try,” she whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> I realize this was a little meandering. This is dedicated to my BFF, Carmen (not her real name), who is my favorite person to write for! This one’s for you, Joker fan extraordinaire, so thank you for always inspiring me!


End file.
